Gustavus Lark sent for Pressland. The men met in Lark’s sanctum, an austere little room, simply furnished. There is another room next to it, and when Gustavus sends for a very particular visitor nobody enters that ante-chamber except a member of the firm. "Do you know this Soho Square man, Quinney?" "I have met him." "Has he come to stay?" "Um! I think so." Gustavus Lark stroked his beard. He looked very handsome and prosperous, not unlike a genial monarch whom he was said by his clerks to understudy. "I want you," he said slowly, "to go to Soho Square this morning, and if by any chance Quinney should ask your opinion of the commode, why"—he laughed pleasantly—"in that case I shouldn’t mind betting quite a considerable sum that you would discover it to be—er—a clever reproduction." Pressland smiled. "Probably." "I mean to have a look at it myself later." Pressland went his way. Part of his success in life may be assigned to a praiseworthy habit of executing small and big commissions with becoming promptitude. He strolled into Quinney’s shop as if he were the most idle man in town. "Anything to show me?" he asked languidly. Quinney was delighted to see him. He recognized Pressland at once. "Happy and honoured to see you, sir." Presently, he took him upstairs into the drawing-room, already spoken of as the "sanctuary." In it were all his beloved treasures. He had done up the room "regardless." Here stood his Chippendale cabinet, filled with Early Worcester and Chelsea; here were his cherished prints in colour, his finest specimens of Waterford glass, two or three beautiful miniatures, and many other things. Pressland was astonished, but he said little, nodding his head from time to time, and listening attentively to Quinney. As soon as he entered the room he perceived the satin-wood commode standing in the place of honour. Pressland praised the Chippendale cabinet, and ignored the commode. Quinney frowned. Finally he jerked out: "What do you think of that, sir?" "What?" "That commode. Pedigree bit, out of an old Melshire manor house. Good stuff, hey?" Pressland adjusted his pince-nez, and stared hard and long at the panels. Quinney began to fidget. "Bit of all right—um?" Pressland said slowly: "I hope you didn’t pay very much for it, Mr. Quinney." "I paid a thumping big cheque for it. Never paid so much before for a single bit." Pressland murmured pensively: "I thought you knew your furniture." "Ain’t it all right? There’s no secret about what I paid. It’s been paragraphed—nine hundred pounds." A soft whistle escaped from Pressland’s thin lips. He said depressingly: "I dare say you know more about those panels than I do." Quinney protested vigorously: "Don’t play that on me, Mr. Pressland. If I knew one quarter of what you know about pictures I’d be a proud man." "A pedigree bit? What do you mean by that?"